


everything's warm when your heart grows cold

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Codependent Winchesters, Demon Blood Addiction, Emotional Infidelity, M/M, Season/Series 04, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes home after a night out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything's warm when your heart grows cold

**Author's Note:**

> written for wincest love week.
> 
> title from the song "deconstructing gods" by blaqk audio.

Sam was never one for drugs, but the demon blood gives him a high like nothing else ever has, and it reminds him that maybe addiction is something he comes by honest.

He likes Ruby to think that he only gets it from her, likes her to think that she has the upper hand. She’s more generous that way, lets him be a little more violent when he gets what he needs. But the truth is, he’s a real junkie about it. Gets it where he can. Sometimes summons demons just so he can fight with them, struggle with bare hands and bared teeth and feel the elation of surviving when he finally gets the best of them, when he pins them to the ground and rips into their throat just to feel the hot spray of bright red on his face, in his mouth.

It’s vampiric, the way he drinks until their heart stops and the way he savors afterwards, licks cooling blood from between his fingers and palms his dick through his jeans.

It’s never sexual with Ruby, as much as she tries. But here on his own, on a bone cold night in an alley with a lifeless body under his own, he comes in his pants just from the profanity of it.

He wipes most of it off with towels he’d brought with him for just this purpose, and he burns them along with the shirt he’d been wearing. He changes and goes to a Wendy’s where he can scrub clean in the bathroom, scrape the blood from beneath his nails and brush his blood-stained teeth until his gums are bleeding and his teeth are white and he’s spitting deep pink into the sink.

He ditches the ride he’d stolen and walks back to the motel, lazy snow starting up by the time he gets to the parking lot and drags a hand across the Impala’s cold body on his way to the door.

It’s always here, right here, that he starts to really fucking hate himself.

It’s like shaking off a fuck-haze, waking up in the morning after doing depraved things all night and being ashamed of all the real-you you’d let out, given life to. Turning the key in the lock and opening the door to where his brother is sleeping with his boots on, he’s reminded that he’s a piece of shit, that he’s unclean in a way he could never scour off, that it’s gone all the way to the bone, and he’s lost. He’s so lost.

He shuts the door behind him with a silence bred into him by their dead father, and he strips down to nothing and tugs on some clean underwear in the sliver of light showing through between the faded linen curtains. And it’s in that same light that he looks over at the bed closest to the wall, at his brother’s curled form, and he realizes that Dean’s trembling.

Worry pushes out every other emotion thrumming in his ruined veins and through his unnatural body, and he pads over the scratchy carpet until he’s beside Dean’s bed, kneeling down like a mother, like a sinner.

“Dean?” he whispers, and feels little again.

Dean doesn’t reply, doesn’t even take a deep breath. Sam thinks maybe he’s dreaming. Thinks maybe he’s asleep, getting sick, hasn’t eaten enough. But he knows better. Knows this is all his fault.

The self-hatred floods back in, coats the worry with the thick red of shame.

“Go’ta sleep, Sammy,” comes Dean’s voice, flooded with tears and scratchy with pain. Sam watches as Dean tenses, stills his body, followed by the wet click of swallowing.

Dean knows where he goes, what he’s getting. Not even Sam can hide the betrayal anymore, and neither of them have the energy to pretend around it.

Sam sits back on his haunches then, tired knees creaking from his hour spent spread-thighed and kneeling on wet pavement, drinking the life out of a stranger. He digs his knees in harder, forces the bruises to ache more.

He realizes, with a feeling like a tic, like the twitch of an eye, that Dean is wearing something that belongs to him. A brown hoodie that he hasn’t worn in years, that he thought maybe he’d left behind in some motel room in the dirt-brown middle of America and had been given to the grandson of some cleaning lady.

But here it is, wrapped around his brother’s thinly trembling body like a blanket, like a body, like Sam himself should be.

He closes his eyes and lowers his head until it’s resting on the bed, forehead against the blanket, nose buried in, making it hard to breathe.

If he was stronger, braver, he would’ve put his gun in his mouth years ago.

He used to think that he stayed alive for Dean, that his death would destroy him. But now, on this dark mooned night a few days before Christmas, he knows that his life is killing Dean, more than anything else ever has.

He stands up because he’s half-demon himself at the moment, he’s shaking with sin and with a hunger for the taste of a bullet, he’s got nothing left to lose as he pulls the blanket back and slides into his brother’s bed, stretches out long and warm-bodied against Dean’s chilled back.

Dean doesn’t say a word, just inhales so deep Sam can feel the expansion of his chest through his back, can hear the rake of it in his lungs. Dean’s head is covered by the hood, keeping him all but hidden from Sam. Good. Sam doesn’t deserve to see him. Doesn’t deserve the gold and warm and forever of Dean. He deserves just this: scraps, taking what he can get because he’s selfish, because Dean will never tell him no.

Because sometimes you can break something so completely it’ll let you hold the pieces back together and pretend it’s whole again.

He wraps around Dean’s body, leg over his thigh, arm around his middle, face tucked into the back of the hood where his neck is covered under it. He burrows his nose in and breathes and is undeservingly rewarded with the smell of his brother, a scent that would bring him to his knees, if he were still standing.

He closes his eyes to the hot rush of tears that spills down his cheeks, closes his eyes and tightens around Dean until it has to hurt, until it’s smothering them both, just the way they like it.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say. _I’ve broken us, and I will never forgive myself._

They fall into an uneasy, wakeful quiet and Dean eventually softens against him, eases back into him, melts into the suffocating love that only these two bodies understand.


End file.
